


la douleur exquise

by Tokine



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Roommates, So Married, why are there so many villains idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokine/pseuds/Tokine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Best translated as, "The heartbreaking pain of wanting someone you can’t have." In which our two favorite science nerds fall promptly in love and deny the crap out of themselves until they realize how married they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	la douleur exquise

"Holy shit you're cute." Immediately the man slaps his hands over his mouth, fumbling on the nightstand to turn the lamp on, but only knocking over the precariously stacked bundle of notebooks and writing utensils kept there. It was a wonder the man had already accumulated such clutter, especially if he couldn't have been residing in the dorm for longer than four hours. Lysandre takes it in stride, crossing the room with easy steps and flicking the switch, illuminating the room with a fuzzy glow.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well Mr. Sycamore." It's a rumbling thing, and the immaculately styled rust colored mane the other man sports only helps to further implement the visual of a lion.  
  
Feeling intensely as if he was the one being hunted the startled man replied, "Augustine, if you will." His throat was incredibly dry, and how did that happen because he had like three cups of coffee before promptly falling asleep on his notes?

"Augustine it is then." Oh wow Sycamore had not thought this one through at all because the sound of his name being purred gave him all these feelings and this was terrible and he was going to die. Luckily, his lamp-savior (for lack of a better name. He hadn't established what his name of choice was and he was far too old to be referring to people as his crush anymore, even in his internal monologuing.) had interrupted his thoughts of impending doom. "You may call me Lysandre."

Lysandre turns out to be much more than a roommate to Sycamore. He’s a computer-fixing, alarm clock, expert chef hunk of a man with sharply defined deltoids and an even sharper wit. And he looks absolutely delicious in an apron, but that’s a thought for when the only witnesses for the actions that go along with that line of thought are steam and a guilty conscience. Sycamore’s ever grateful to the man, because along with all of his other talents he also happens to be completely fluent in Sycamore’s rather unique language. A vague gesture here and some indistinguishable French murmurings there, and Lysandre seemed to know exactly what was on his mind. 

“Good morning professor.” Before he can dispute the nickname the flame haired man is pressing school supplies and a hairbrush into his hands, and the spoon piled sky high with sugar screams the promise of coffee if Sycamore ever manages to pull himself out of bed. Sycamore could never understand, he’s had various alarms over the years, screaming, thrashing things that included his attention-starved little cousins and various alarms purchased specially for his issue, but once he fell asleep rising again before his body was ready to do so on its own was always a struggle. But one purr from his roommate and was up, seeking that warm voice the same way he sought out blankets when they were ripped unceremoniously from his bed. To Sycamore, Lysandre was contentment; he was bubble baths and summer rain and thunderstorms observed from underneath a sturdy tent on blankets all at once. 

“Lys,” He murmurs in lieu of saying all that, but he knows the sentiment isn’t lost on the man. They had a secret language after all, one Sycamore’s spent twenty years refining only to be effortlessly translated by one over the course of a few months.

“Get to class,” Is the response, but Sycamore knows what that means as well. He resolves to pick up some flowers on the way home, white lilies that Lysandre secretly adored, their clean color complimenting the rose colored vase Sycamore had painted for his birthday. Purity and innocence, he mused to himself as he browsed the other flowers in the shop after greeting the attendants. They knew him well, knew that he gravitated towards the lilies and other flowers of delicacy, and knew not to question the gentle smile on his lips when he assured the cashier that no, this wasn’t for a boyfriend, it was just his roommate. 

“Good afternoon Archie!” Sycamore was always a bundle of smiles, especially in the shop. It made for something Archie was happy to see, as a flower enthusiast. 

“Good afternoon my friend. How are you and your lovely roommate this fine day?” Archie strictly forbid his employees from any kind of jesting at Sycamore and his ‘roommate’ situation, but that didn’t mean the rule applied to him. It was a topic of much discussion among employees, their very own reality show, and some would even attest to a secret betting pool regarding the topic of when Sycamore would get together with his roommate. 

“We’re just fine Archie. How are you and your non-platonic roommate?” That didn’t mean Sycamore was afraid of returning the sass he was given. Quite to the contrary, he took it all in stride. 

“We’re just fine.” Archie made sure to emphasize the ‘we’ in attempt to convince the other man of the striking similarities Sycamore’s situation had with the couple. “I know whenever I get lilies for Maxie I wrap them with some baby’s breath, are you interested?”

“That sounds great, thank you.” When Sycamore finally returned home, Lysandre was of course appreciative of the flowers, gently handling them as he filled the vase with water. It always amused Sycamore how easily Lysandre’s personality could do a complete about face, from discussing electronics and physics to cooing over a bouquet of flowers, but he was never one to complain about seeing that adorable expression on the flame haired man’s face.

  
~  


“You’ve messed with Lysandre long enough. What are your true intentions for him?” Sycamore’s eyes usually roll when he sees Giovanni, but he brought his mob and was attempting to stagger threateningly towards him, but it only makes the man look drunk. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow?” Politeness, Sycamore knew, was the only way to deal with this guy. By sinking down to Giovanni’s level, the other man would win by experience, and Sycamore had no intentions of allowing that to happen, especially when the topic concerned his roommate.

“Come on Augustine,” He purrs, and Sycamore has to hold back his flinch at one of the few people he doesn’t like using his first name so casually. “He’s intelligent, handsome, and rich. Surely that explains your pathetic display of mooning over him as you do?” Unbeknownst to Sycamore, Lysandre was waiting in the classroom nearest by, pressed closely up against the door. Lysandre hadn’t intended on hearing this particular conversation, but now that he was here it would be extremely awkward to meander into the hallway, and he was quite curious beside.

“I do not know what you’re trying to say about my best friend. He’s absolutely wonderful, and I fully agree with you that he has many attractive traits. But that’s all he is, my best friend, and I’d appreciate if you kept away from us and whatever relationship we have.” Sycamore’s tone lost all of its friendly qualities, and Lysandre would have seriously feared the argument delving into violence if he wasn’t quite so busy feeling his heart drop. That’s right, they were best friends and that’s all they were. Sycamore clearly didn’t have feelings for him and Lysandre was not about to make a fool out of himself by proclaiming his feelings for his best friend. At best, he’d get brushed off with Sycamore returning the ‘I love you’ and proclaiming them to be best friends forever. At worst? He’d lose the best thing he’d had going for him in a while. Yes, it was best to remain silent and hope these feelings pass over, because he knew there was no way he could restrain himself from seeing Sycamore any less than he already did. It was fine, everything was fine, and they would be best friends forever. 

  
~  


On his entire walk back to the bar (although at this point, stagger would be a more accurate verb) all Sycamore looks forward is to finding something warm to cuddle with. As soon as he manages to get the key in the door (it takes only five tries, a new record!) Sycamore wraps his arms around the closest thing. This closest thing happens to be his roommate, working with some kind of technology that looked like it would zap him if he touched it incorrectly. But Lysandre wouldn't let me get hurt, his drunk mind supplies helpfully, and with that he nuzzles his head into the taller man's chest.

"Mmm you're like a tray of cookies straight out of the oven." Lysandre sometimes wonders why he rooms with this terrible, delightful man. Right now is one of those times. Deciding it's best to keep the intoxicated man occupied while being dressed for bed, Lysandre indulges in the other's whims. He sets down his prototype, mentally noting where he left off, and starts to gather Sycamore's pajamas from where they'd been shed on the floor after depositing the other man onto his bed. Graciously, he ignores the giggle Sycamore lets slip when he bends over. He casually unbuttons the other's shirt, ignoring the rush than runs through him at doing something a lover would do.

"Is that so? Why would that be?" And maybe, since Augustine wouldn't remember it anyway, the other man wouldn't mind his whisper being awfully close to the shell of his ear, or his hands being firm on the small of his back as he's manhandled to bed. Once he finally pulls the other's shirt off (but not without a couple of sighs that definitely weren't from being tired and a muted whisper of 'yes please', but his ears could have been playing tricks on him) Sycamore grabs his wrists, uncharacteristically strong and looks up at the other man, ensuring eye contact before he responded.

"Because you're really hot and sweet of course mon cocotte!" Sycamore looks incredibly pleased with himself, as if he discovered something in his research and not just awkwardly hit on his roommate while intoxicated. Lysandre lets out a sigh that's definitely from exhaustion, and mentally reorganizes his plans for tomorrow to include a dip in the hot spring. He's earned it. He slips the other man's sleep shirt on, all the while carefully tuning out Sycamore's babbling in French. Still, he catches a few words, and Lysandre can't help but feel ever so thoroughly loved as the man calls him every relevant (and sometimes nonsensical, but Augustine was nonsensical at heart and so it wasn't that far of a departure from his normal) name of endearment he knows. Lysandre tunes out again once he mentions what he wants to do with the other man (and while he was sure hand holding and long walks on the beach were on that list, that's not quite what Sycamore was describing) and if hearing those things from Augustine wasn't hot enough his French made it even hotter and no, he was drunk and now was not the time for this conversation.

"As much as I'd love to hear you continue that line of thought," and oh, how Lysandre wanted him to, but he tried to keep his tone as teasing as it always was when he conversed with Sycamore, "we can save this conversation for when we're both thinking straight." He steadfastly ignores the other man's giggle because no one should be allowed to sound that cute, especially when discussing their hypothetical sex life with someone they weren't even dating.

"Mon amour," and if that doesn't make Lysandre swoon at least a little bit, "I believe not thinking straight would be an integral part of that conversation." Lysandre lets himself smile, because at this point his incredibly attractive (and smart and kind and sweet and single) roommate was driving him crazy, and he'd rather smile than cry at what his life had become.

"Good night Sycamore," Lysandre whispers, and he hopes the other man understands that's the end of the conversation. But of course, intoxicated young men set on seducing their roommates don't take clues and Sycamore continued easily on. His voice was thick with fighting off sleep and his accent (oh god, his accent) was not helping to calm down Lysandre's heart rate any.

"Always loved when you said my name you know. None of that 'Sycamore' or 'Professor' crap. My real name." The words are deliberate now, but sleepy, and it's the oddest juxtaposition that only serves to make the intoxicated man sound thoughtful. Lysandre really does not have time for heartfelt confessions right now, if they're only induced under alcohol's sweet insistence.

"Good night," Lysandre snaps, and the force there is just exhaustion and frustration rearing its ugly head and he really didn't want to ruin the moment but he'd gone and sabotaged it.

"Good night who?" That man was ridiculous. Lysandre was not going to look at the other man, was not going to spare even a peek at the obvious smirk on the other's face. "I'm sorry, who were you talking to again?" Lysandre wouldn't let himself be prodded into talking. He considers the pajama pants in his left hand before folding them, figuring in the morning Sycamore would understand the circumstances on why this part of his outfit hadn't been changed.

"Good night Augustine," Lysandre grumbles out and the other man coos. It wounds Lysandre’s pride, just how easily he nuzzles into Augustine’s touch, feels the brush of his fingers gently working out the knots. He vaguely wonders if this is what puppies feel like all the time, with all this warmth in their chests, and it’s suddenly very easy to understand just how goofy they act and the lengths they would go to affection for. 

"Much better," Sycamore replied with a sleepy hum of contentment. This man was absolutely incorrigible. Lysandre was finally about to slip away when he feels that viselike grip around his waist again. "If you won't change my pants for me, won't you at least cuddle?" The sly bastard, he had been going through a dry spell recently. If this was Sycamore's way of getting some, he supposed he should feel sorry for the other man instead of vaguely irritated. Either way, the next time this happened he was totally leaving the other on his lonesome to get changed and washed up. Lysandre sighed again, submitting the arm around his waist. He was at least a half a foot taller, fifty pounds heavier, easy. But somehow this little twig of a man made him so weak that unless he was being absolutely ridiculous (instead of partially ridiculous, as he'd always was) he couldn't deny the man anything. Even if it was hugs when the other man felt sick and feeding him chicken soup (in a pink frilly apron no less. He had no problem with pink, lace, nor frills. But Sycamore's garish arrangement in it when he tried to make an apron after one sewing class? It wasn't beautiful at all. Despite the fact it was even embroidered with the words 'kiss the cook', he still wore the thing to make the other man cheer up. Dedicated would be an understatement for Lysandre right now.) he just couldn't do it. Well, if it's cuddling he wants than it'll be cuddling he gets, Lysandre thought to himself and if Lysandre said the fact they fit perfectly together didn't pluck another heartstring, he'd be lying. Sycamore must have been worn out by the alcohol, because he never returned the good night sentiment back to Lysandre, even after making him say it three times. Incorrigible. This man was incorrigible.

And, unfortunately, he was also completely unavailable.

The son of the hot spring's owner asks him out the next day. Xerosic, his name is, and he's full of ideas of beauty and science and he's available. So Lysandre plays the game when he sees the other man hint at going to see a movie, says he's free and mentally reminds himself to politely excuse himself from going to his study group tomorrow evening. And maybe, just maybe, he lets his voice take on the little rumble it does that drives everyone (or rather, 99% of people as far as he knows because Sycamore just had to go and ruin his perfect success rate) insane and perhaps flexes his biceps a little more. All in the name of the game, of course. Notices the other man noticing him, and feels Xerosic's polite front of coyness slip away and give way to an offer for a date. The smile is hardly even faked, really, and he even feels some kind of excitement as he slips into the shower post work out the next day to get ready for his date. He offers the information to Sycamore, who received it politely but disinterestedly, and he barely has to remind himself not be jealous of textbook receiving more attention than him. To make up for it, Sycamore seems overly attentive the hour before Lysandre’s date, reassuring him that it would go perfect and wiggling his eyebrows when reminding the man not to be too loud, at whatever hour of the night or morning he came back. Lysandre leaves at exactly 7:15 to arrive at the movie theater at 7:28, and then promptly spends the next thirty-six minutes waiting for his thirty-four minute late date. The movie is droll, and he’s privately glad he didn’t bring Sycamore to see it, despite fact it was on their joint ‘to-watch’ list. What’s even worse is the hand that certainly wasn't his tracing odd patterns on his knee, becoming more insistent as time went on. Lysandre can tell Xerosic is trying to meet his eyes, sees the desire and intensity out of the corner of his eye, and pretends to be interested in the movie for the sake of his genitals. Dinner is mystery meat lasagna and monotonous conversation, and he holds out for an hour and seventeen minutes until he politely excuses himself to the bathroom to frantically text Sycamore on how terrible the date was going and how much he wanted to go home. He doesn’t realize what is going on until Sycamore rushes in there six minutes and forty seven seconds later, babbling some nonsense about a sick grandmother they need to visit now that, after future revision, he’s sure Xerosic doesn’t buy for even a second. He can’t find himself to care, because this man wasn’t interesting at all. He was a mistake, a waste of an evening that he could’ve been studying physics during with a person who wasn’t so inept to his peculiar way of speaking conveyed mostly through body language and misleading words. Sycamore would’ve known how terrible he found the movie, picked it up easily through the subtle clenching and unclenching of his jaw and the constant thrum of his fingers tapping on the arm rest. Sycamore wouldn’t have touched him when he was clearly uncomfortable, wouldn’t have gone seeking carnal pleasure out of an unwilling victim. He’s not quite sure if his date was absolutely terrible, or if he’s had the divine pleasure of knowing such a considerate man that he’s been so thoroughly spoiled. But the entire problem is, Sycamore wouldn’t have gone on this date in the first place, because Sycamore was not interested in him romantically and never would be.

“I’m so sorry your date turned out to be so terrible, especially with how excited you were.” They’re back in their dorm again, and the lights are turned low and the only sound besides their whispers is dripping of the coffeepot and the violinist next door who’s quiet playing always manages to slip through the walls anyway. It’s calming anyway, and the piece seems to fit the mood right, and it’s silent for a bit as they sip at their peppermint tea and listen as Lysandre slowly learns to breathe again. He finally catches his breath when this time Sycamore manages to steal it from him by running a brush through his thick scarlet mane. It’s a luxurious feeling, having one’s hair brushed, and Lysandre sprawls himself into Sycamore’s lap and feels every vertebrae pop into place as he stretches his back. ‘This is what a date should feel like,’ he thinks to himself, and gathers his courage before he loses it to the resistance sleep has wagered against him. 

“I just want you to know that I made you my choice of roommate for next year.” Lysandre begins, and he’s grateful that the brush tugging through his locks doesn’t even falter. That was a good sign, probably, and Lysandre was willing to look for all the positive he could find in this moment.

“Okay.” Sycamore’s response is more of a hum than anything, a sleepy acknowledgement, and it stings Lysandre a little that the other man doesn’t seem to be recognizing the importance of this moment and his need for reciprocation.

“Okay?” Perhaps a question will make Sycamore explain himself. Lysandre is willing to try anything at this point to try and decode the unusual silence of the other man.

“Okay.” Once again with his monosyllabic answer, and Lysandre was starting to get worried. It was rather pitiful, the way he’d sprawled himself out over the other like an overgrown house cat, and the fact his pride took this long to notice and was taking even longer to care was worrying him.

“I know you have plenty of friends. Plenty of reasons not to reciprocate the gesture. Plenty of beautiful people just wrapped around your finger,” Sycamore’s eyes widen as Lysandre already starts putting himself down, not realizing that Sycamore was trying to put the other to sleep with his answers. They didn’t need to talk about that tonight, especially not with Lysandre in such a poor mood from the downright disrespectful treatment from his date. Sycamore had considered other roommates, considered finding another just so he could establish distance to get over his crush that never really went away for Lysandre. But if it was going to cause Lysandre pain? They would be roommates as long as Lysandre wanted, Sycamore’s emotions be damned, because that was the right thing to do. 

“We’ll talk about it over the summer,” Sycamore promises, and hopes the soothing fingers being rubbed into the other’s scalp are enough to send him off to sleep. 

“Summer,” Lysandre promises while holding back a yawn. Exhaustion wins the battle over the man’s distress, and his eyes slip shut. They live in a daze for the next week of relentless testing, and their finals fry their brains so thoroughly that the conversation doesn’t even come up on moving-out day. Their goodbye that day was a somber one, and it’s hard to be excited about long days of sunshine when they’re ones that are going to spent without the presence of the other.

They’ve got an entire summer. An entire summer to drown themselves in nostalgia, to relentlessly review their own mistakes and chastise themselves into the pits of despair, only to be brought back out again by a silly selfie on the other’s Twitter. They’ve mutually followed each other and exchanged numbers, but many nights will be spent staring at blank phone screens and empty inboxes.

“This is ridiculous,” Sycamore is mumbling to himself, because no, he should not be awake at eight in the morning without any of Lysandre’s coffee to send him on his way or Lysandre’s gentle scolding to coax him out of bed. He opens the texting application on his phone and considers the keyboard for a minute, wonders why all the normal symbols are jumbling before his eyes and why he can’t seem to phrase anything in French, let alone English. He’s fallen back into his old schedule of before, and it’s almost too easy to slip into slacks (that he ironed himself, of all crimes!) and a crisp white button up and direct visitors on their merry ways. His old boss is all too easy to pen him back into the work schedule, but he supposes of all desk jobs that he could’ve landed over the summer, going back to his old receptionist gig isn’t too bad. The hours are decent and there’s a cute crêpe place around the corner where he can grab lunch, and they give him enough paperwork to keep his mind occupied from nine to five. There are beautiful women wherever he turns his head, but they only serve as an unwelcome distraction. He grows to dislike the one with fire red hair and an ever charming smile. There’s no reason for his distaste, during their few interactions she’s proven to be kind and hardworking, but those traits only serve to alienate her from him instead of endear her. Sycamore has no need for supple breasts and soft skin, it’s pleasant but not pleasurable and right now he was completely devoid in that department. He wanted to cuddle into a mess of warm limbs and tufts of scarlet hair and to quiet the voices that constantly argued in his head trying to reason out the situation. He wanted to watch silly movies and ruthlessly dissect them afterwards over kale chips and green tea. He wanted to share notes and dreams and fears and aspirations. He wanted to rest his hand inside another, larger one, and breathe in the scent of graphite and dusty labs that always seemed to remain on their clothing despite numerous washings. He wanted to go home, and despite being at his house right now he knew home was in that dinky little dormitory with the man who knew him better than he knew himself. It’s now or never, he thinks to himself and texts the man.

Lysandre’s summer was a summer of waiting. It was altogether quite frustrating to go back to his schedule of before, and everyone else’s incompetence is just annoying and not endearing at all. He misses the man who he could giggle at silly cat videos with one minute and discuss physics the next. No one seems to understand him in the way Sycamore does, they miss the subtle nuances in his expressions and the lips that say one word and mean another. It doesn’t feel right to him purchasing a bouquet of white lilies for himself either, and the lack of beauty in his room (be it from Sycamore’s smile or the flowers accompanying it) agitates him like no other. It’s not easy for him to remain cool and levelheaded, and holding himself back from relentlessly analyzing Sycamore’s tweets to see if there was a message about him hidden in them becomes more of a struggle each day that he receives no correspondence from the man. But then the fateful day comes, and he sees a message from Augustine, and he can’t hold back the emotions that spring up from him as he reads. He knew it, he just knew it, he had blown his only chance with the one light of his life. ‘Call me,’ the message reads, but it reeks to him of impending doom. No one would ever contact their roommate who had royally screwed up with them with such an obviously ambiguous message that he’s supposed to read and wallow in the uncertainty of as he ponders what exactly went wrong. It seems Sycamore obviously had little patience, because the next thing he knows destiny is literally calling him as the phone vibrates in his hands. Silly phone. The phone had nothing to fear, unlike Lysandre. If anything, he should be the one lying on the floor shaking, not a souped up circuit board that he only used for Twitter and the occasional text from his mother. He’s jolted out of his thoughts when he realizes this was the final ring before it went to voicemail, and if that happened he’d lose whatever miniscule chance he had to make things right with the other man.

“I didn’t put you down as my roommate in the dorms.” Sycamore apparently didn’t believe in salutations. Or second chances for that matter, but Lysandre had to respect the other man’s decision.

“Okay, I understand.” Lysandre is just about to hang up the phone and find the nearest ditch to sob in and hide from humanity with for approximately the next century when he hears Sycamore’s voice again, quivering.

“No you don’t. We’re not living in a dorm. I need your signature before I can finalize the lease on the apartment though.” An apartment? If Sycamore wanted his own apartment what would he need Lysandre’s signature for… oh. Oh. He must have verbalized some of his thoughts, because Sycamore was chuckling again, a merry, watery, relieved thing, and this is definitely not what Lysandre had expected from this phone call. “Yeah, oh. Are you going to sign this lease or not? I drove down to the college town and I’ll be here for the rest of the summer, if you find a day off work you should really drive up and do your part of the paperwork. You know I’m terrible with legal documents.” Lysandre braved a glance at his calendar. It was stuffed to the brim, but Sycamore didn’t need to know that. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can get away from work. There’s an IKEA nearby, so you should probably start looking on the website so we can go when I get there.” When Sycamore responds with an affirmative, they say their goodbyes, and it takes a couple seconds until Lysandre can catch his breath. He’ s leaving before he can truly comprehend the situation, just two days later getting into the car and being sent off by a salacious wink from his boss and well wishes by his parents. They go out shopping, buying coffee tables and pots and pans and even a Bill Nye the Science Guy poster because he’s a mutual idol of the two. It’s almost too easy for them to fall into the same easy rhythm of before, of macaroni and cheese on Wednesdays and movie night on Fridays, and Sycamore never needs to think about the answer when someone asks him out on a Friday night anymore. It’s always no thank you, I’ll be staying at home for the evening. Home, he finally had a house and it felt like a home, and nothing felt more right.

  
~  


“Hey Lys,” Sycamore begins one evening, because he’s content now and he’s risking it all but he just has to know.

“Yes?” Lysandre arched an eyebrow at the wavering of his voice, already disliking where the conversation was going. Honestly, he already endured wearing the pink apron, he wasn’t going to agree to go sewing class no matter how intensely Sycamore used his puppy dog eyes.

“What are we?” Okay wow that was not Lysandre was expecting. Humor. He needed humor and they needed to return to their normal script of teasing Sycamore and disgruntled Lysandre because he was not ruining the wonderful thing he had going with Sycamore with his silly emotions and his silly feelings of wanting just a bit more.

“If you want me to answer stardust or some other such babble, I’m terminating this conversation. We all know you’re one in a billion Sycamore, you don’t need that droll inspirational nonsense to go to that head of yours.” Judging by the frustrated look in the other’s eyes, Lysandre had completely botched up answering that question.

“Excellent job killing the mood while simultaneously complimenting me, but that’s not where I was going with that question. Look at us right now. Think about what we did today.” Lysandre finishes drying the cereal bowl and stowing it in the cabinet before retiring his dish towel for the duration of the conversation. Clearly the other man was experiencing some kind of distress, and his undivided attention was crucial to clearing up whatever was plaguing the other man’s mind. “Oh no, don’t think you’re getting out of chores just because we’re having a necessary conversation. But honestly, answer my question.” Lysandre had to hold himself back from rolling his eyes, if anyone were to skimp on the chores in this household it certainly wouldn’t be him. Sycamore wanted the day’s itinerary to validate some ridiculous point his mind had conjured up? Well, that’s exactly what he was going to get.

“We got up at nine and sliced up some strawberries and bananas for breakfast. I worked on balancing our checkbooks and you did the dishes and some reading until it was time for yoga. After yoga we went to the Italian place on the corner and you complained to me about different people in our class while I pretended to not see you sneak all the mushrooms onto my plate, which is not good because the whole reason you get that dish is because you need more iron in your diet. Afterwards we spent the day intermittently studying and watching Netflix until around six o’clock, when you decided it was time for dinner, for which we made chicken and rice. After eating a nice meal, you decided to accost me with strange questions while we did the evening dishes. Did I miss anything?”

“No you’re absolutely correct.” Sycamore sounded choked, pained even, and he only adopts that tone when he sees some kind of atrocity on television or in the news. It was the sole warning sign for a code red breakdown, and Lysandre immediately went into defensive measures.

“It’s like I’ve been here for the entire day or something,” Lysandre hoped a bit of gentle teasing would lift Sycamore out of the funk he lost himself in. It was unnatural really, Lysandre being the joking one and Sycamore the one having trouble keeping a cool head, and the scarlet haired man wanted to return to their old script. 

“Just think about it Lys. We share a Netflix account. You help me balance my checkbook. You know my dietary restrictions. We go to yoga together. We picked out lighting fixtures for our dream kitchen on a Saturday night despite the fact we’re both attractive, young, and intelligent men who would have no problem picking someone up at a bar, and spent a lazy Sunday together, which we do every Sunday. Isn’t this a little domestic?” Lysandre’s eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Sycamore, if you’re uncomfortable…” If he was uncomfortable with their living situation, why was he currently burrowing into Lysandre’s arms? This man truly was perplexing.

“Augustine. If we’re going to act like an old married couple then you’re going to have to at least call me by my first name.” Ah, there was the old insistence for the use of his first name. It always sounded terribly intimate to Lysandre, and he feared just how much he enjoyed saying that name and how easily it would fall into place in his regular vernacular. But to soothe him on the brink of a breakdown? Lysandre wouldn’t mind using the name carefully if it meant a smile on the other man’s face.

“Augustine it is then.” Lysandre shifts his gaze down to the lump in his arms when he hears a small snort come from the mess of hair. He questions it with a hum, not quite ready to accost the emotional man with questions yet on where this conversation was going.

“That’s what you said when I corrected you, the first time we met. The time I almost knocked over a lamp, remember?” The time in his life that Sycamore was just a name, not what would soon come to be the most important person in his life. 

“How could I ever forget? You complimented me, almost destroyed school property, and then proceeded to make a thorough mess of our shared living space.” Lysandre’s glad to hear another chuckle reverberate from the mess of a man still huddled in his arms. 

“Well, when you put it like that…” He trailed off, the sweetness nostalgia left on his face replaced by a carefully trained expression of neutrality. “That aside, you do realize we act like a married couple, right?”

“I do.” Lysandre regretted the word choice as soon as he made it, because the hope that he just saw creep into Augustine’s eyes went straight to his heart. 

“And how do you feel about that?” Back to the careful neutrality again. This conversation was loaded with emotional landmines, it was surprising neither one of them had started crying yet. Judging by their collective inability to keep it together during sad romance movies (They both lost it in their own ways. While Sycamore would get very antsy and start squirming in his seat and attempting to focus on everything but the screen in front of him, Lysandre would go incredibly still and wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away. They were both well acquainted to each other’s quirks in that matter for the sheer amount of Nicholas Sparks movies that appeared in the recommended list on their Netflix. To be fair, ‘The Notebook’ really did deserve an accolade of the sort of ‘America’s Newest Classic’. It was an artistic masterpiece, for sure.) a breakdown was inevitable. 

“It makes me feel…” Sycamore’s phone chose just about the worst time to start vibrating. They both stared at the offending object dancing on the counter before Lysandre found it within his ability to dislodge the words stuck in his throat. “Pick that up, it might be Maxie from the bank calling. I’m trying to set up a better savings account for us and he might need us to go sign some paperwork for that now.” Sycamore carefully drew himself out of the larger man’s arms. While it was very convenient the man who he’d been buying flowers from for years just so happened to have a husband in the banking industry who ensured they got the best rates and worked around their schedules, Lysandre couldn’t help but begrudge the man right now. He needed someone to blame for the empty feeling of a lack of Sycamore in his arms, and he certainly wasn’t going to blame himself for trying to bank responsibly.

“You’re right. We should continue this conversation when I’m not quite so emotional, anyway.” The emotional Augustine was gone, replaced by the cheerful Sycamore who assured Maxie they’d be down by the bank in fifteen minutes to finalize paperwork. Lysandre had to hold back his urge to just touch the man and regain a sense of that intimacy they’d been bordering on the brink of before. The drive to the bank is quiet and when their hands brush as they simultaneously reach to adjust the radio to the classical station that highlights jazz on Sundays, Sycamore flinches back as if burnt. One frustrated sigh later, they’re back to the sensory deprivation of before, and it’s so hard to understand that what used to be a comfortable silence, a mutual agreement of quiet could be so loud to Lysandre. They charm Maxie together, as they always do, but the suspicion in the banker’s eyes is undeniable and Sycamore is more distractible than usual, not even attempting to redirect his gaze from the swans in the lake outside the window as Maxie drones financial jargon and Lysandre nods attentively. This was not unusual, per se, but usually Sycamore at least tried to pay attention to the first couple of minutes until his brain wearied and his eyes glazed over. They scribble their names as Maxie directs, are sent off with a worried ‘good night’, and not a minute later Lysandre receives a text from Archie inquiring about the situation. He sighs for what must be the hundredth time this evening, and ignores the question in his partner’s eyes when they pass by their apartment and instead pull into an ice cream store. 

“Augustine, will you serve me the pleasure of being my date this evening?” There’s a moment where the silence seems even more prolonged, and Lysandre is about to promptly shove his foot into his mouth and drive them both home when feels a mess of dark curls lean up on his shoulder.

“Took you long enough to ask,” And suddenly he’s crying and Augustine is crying and they’re a mess of dripping noses and red eyes when they finally stumble their way into the shop. The cashier looks at them curiously, sees the mutual adoration in their eyes, and decides to keep her comments to herself. One banana split later (and some seriously questionable selfie poses utilizing previously mentioned banana that go instantly on their Twitters and are instantly favorited by Archie and Maxie) and they’re back to normal again and everything feels so right that Sycamore’s heart hurts a little bit with the feeling of how it might bust out of his chest. They drag themselves back to the car when they realize it’s ten o’ clock at night and they both have morning class tomorrow, but there’s nothing awkward about the car ride anymore.

“You’re taking me back to your place already? It’s only our first date, how forward.” Sycamore’s fluttering his eyelashes and Lysandre realizes just how deprived he’s been for the past hour of his silliness and just how empty one hour of lacking this makes him feel, it’s a wonder they ever made it through to summer.

“But how terrible of a date would I be if I didn’t drive you home?” It’s not proper to drive with one hand, but with Sycamore nuzzling him from beneath his right arm, Lysandre finds that he can’t care. He likes the way the word date settles on his tongue, especially with Augustine being the person dated in question, but neither has dared to use the word ‘boyfriend’ yet. 

“Home is where you are Lys, but I’d appreciate a bed to sleep in all the same.” It doesn’t jolt Lysandre as much as it probably should. It’s the closest they’ve come to a love confession and it suits them somehow. The words remain unreturned, but Lysandre leaves little space between Sycamroe and the space underneath his arm for his feelings to be questioned. After all, they had proclaimed their love for each other many, many times. Love was a language and Lysandre spoke Augustine very fluently. It didn’t matter that they’d never use the word, would probably shy away from it for months, years even. It was the way that they held each other, the way Lysandre would learn to press kisses to the underside of Augustine’s jaw after the man had experienced a particularly rough day, or in ways they’d long known like when Sycamore brought home flowers just because of how thankful he was for Lysandre’s constant presence. Yes, they’d found love in their own little way, and they’d barely had to knock over a lamp to do it.


End file.
